Klepto -- Of Things Once Lost
by V-rcingetorix
Summary: Little people are happy people. Unnoticed by organizations like the Avengers, the Fantastic Four or Heaven forbid, the X-men. But sometimes, we get into a little trouble. Maybe. Once in a while, if other thieves get involved. This is a little slice of my life. Also includes Black Cat, but she isn't in the character reference command list.
1. Just Another Day

In this world, there are those that _have_ , and those that _have not_. Media informs us that the _haves_ are roughly one percent of the total population, and that the _have nots_ incorporate the rest. Common sense decrees a vast issue with this form of dichotomy.

Media also tells us that we – the ninety-nine percent – have only recently become the party of the unentitled. We are told that our slippage down the financial ladder is a travesty only discovered by their tireless vigilance, their scintillating intellect, and impeccable honesty. Which, by the way, happens to be so very deserving of our hard-earned cash, so that they may continue their ceaseless monitoring of other vital threats to our well-being. Defenders of truth, justice, and Hemingway, as it were.

What, media moguls aren't part of the One Percent?

I feel admiration for that kind of chutzpah. They have a shtick, and are making a ton of money off of it. By reporting something shady, and taking the role of being the pillar of society, no one questions fair remuneration for services rendered. At last, not until an election comes up, and then all sides start accusing each other of controlling the media, looking for scapegoats on poorly-thought out comments, and so on. It can get uncomfortable for pundits and broadcast systems. If they had shame, that is.

My opinion is a touch more practical. The last place people shine the metaphorical Light of Truth is at the spotlight operator.

Now me, I earn my cash in a completely different fashion. Unlike famous criminals like Dr. Otto Octavius – he of the metallic limbs and scowling face – or the Black Cat – she of the plunging neckline and superb assets – I am but a humble thief. A purveyor of misplaced items, liberator of the tiny things of life.

Let the others take the glory, the mighty prizes of ancient artifacts powering entire civilizations until the Grand Poobah sneezed in the Eternal Light … or whatever. High profile is good for profit. It's bad for longevity and I like living. It's how I do everything, eat lunch, take naps … and come up with ways to avoid dying. Emphasis on that last.

Call me Knut. It's not my actual name, but doting parents devoted to Nordic lore somehow saw fit to bequeath the name Jerk – and no, they didn't watch movies. My last name is equally difficult to pronounce, but that's due more to successful ancestors than unwise parenting. You don't get a last name by having failed ancestors, right? We'll get back to that later.

Imagine, if you will, a picturesque villa filled with the comforts of vacationing splendor. All the essentials are present, of course. Tiny, herb-scented crackers for guests to exclaim over, expensive vases created by those intelligent enough to slap clay into a glorified spittoon and give it a pretentious name, and of course, enough loose change to re-stock a couple uni vending machines. Not the cheap models stocked with candy and ear buds, but the high-class private school variety packed with caviar and ambergris.

Beautiful, isn't it?

Now me, I like the art. Private collectors have a real eye for hidden gems. Which, by happy coincidence, I also enjoy.

Most high-end villas have an equally munificent security. Guard dogs, security officers, cameras, the whole nine yards. With the right equipment, you don't even need mutations to get past them. Which is why I don't use my … admittedly unusual genetic specialty. It's not embarrassing, just … odd.

Back to work. The safe room was easily identifiable for someone like me, a connoisseur of Old School methods. Architects try to disguise safe-rooms by shifting walls around, like a GPS cache hunt. The materials used to harden such a room however, are a bit different from the weight-bearing walls, or the dividing walls. Honestly, you'd think they would spring for a little more stonework, if only to make the deception ... convincing.

Access to a safe room is easy, when you know it's there, and the lockdown has not been engaged. Locating the passcodes, sewn into the drapes, was lucky too.

Inside, I had to restrain the urge to utter a loud whistle. In all probability no one would have noticed, but it's the principle of the thing. And a bad habit – not that I have any.

Inside was a pile of my favorite little friends: gems. And the accompanying precious-metal settings. I _love_ that stuff. So easily transported, meltable, and capable of having high-security nanochips. Finding a couple diamonds the size of my thumb would be nice, but unlikely. Most gemstones are roughly the size of a grain of rice, and only the _uber_ wealthy would pay a fortune for something so small. Well, romantics as well – there's no cure for the intellectually sappy. That kind of mentality makes my job all the easier.

The best about gemstone settings? They slipped into my side-wallet with no difficulties whatsoever, individually wrapped in a long silk sash to stop that annoying clink. Little details like that are what get the _less capable_ thieves caught. I hesitate to be rude of my … peers … because I can afford manners. Successful thieves – repeatedly successful mind – can have that kind of expense.

But, there was no sense pushing my luck. I'm sure there were tens of thousands of dollars' worth of potentially-clinking goodies lying around, but that wasn't my target.

My _true_ target was the computer panel set in the wall beside the emergency control panel, and more specifically, the thumb-drive access port therein. I calmed myself; any mistake at this point would net a grand total of nothing. All the planning, stakeouts, trips to the City Planner office, rendered worthless.

Well … except for a pocket full of high-quality gems. Nice consolation prize.

But I have always gone for big game – within reason – and performed the past forty-two times with flawless capacity. There was just something about that number … that made me want to increase it. Could I pull a flawless forty-third? After all, I only needed to be lucky one more time. To catch me, the cops had to be lucky all the time, to twist a certain saying.

The data-box, a rounded cylinder, came out of the silk lining without catching. The static-proof exterior slid open, revealing the enameled black device within. It felt heavy in my hand, as well it should have. Five terabyte hard drive, solid state no less, were expensive. Quickly I located the access port, plugged it in, and took a fast step back. Interrupting the upload had the potential to leave a digital trail wider than a politician's moral compass point.

While it did its work, I performed a quick change. Silk leggings and lycra-tight shoulders were covered with a nauseating green pair of slacks, and button-front. An equally revolting over-shirt covered a Kevlar vest, or at least what looked to be Kevlar. Since the entire outfit had been designed for a much tubbier individual, the last piece added was the inflatable bladder, underneath the entire ensemble. In seconds, the skinny, lanky form of Knut the Thief became the pudgy form of Tom 'Seneca' McNichols, private contractor and liberator of donuts everywhere. The former had entered through a darkened laundry sack of a help-service vehicle; the latter would walk out, visually identical to any of a hundred rent-a-cops.

Just in time, a bright green light winked on the thumb-drive, indicating its program had been pushed through. I snatched it up, hastily dropping it into its protective casing.

More casually, I left the safe room, adopting the confident swagger of the average bouncer. It was in the leg; how police officers were trained to saunter. _Proceeding_ they called it.

My exit from the safe room took me into the bedroom, and then the hall. The actual guards were dedicated members of _Dos Hermanos_ , an elite firm based out of Sao Paulo. While that didn't excuse the lack of fashion sense, it certainly did explain the ease with which I'd acquired their uniform.

Cue rimshot. Sometimes, I kill myself.

Normally, the interior of an off-time place is dead quiet. So quiet you can hear a buzzing fly two stories away. That meant a soft tap, quiet as the sound of snowfall on dry leaves, caught my attention. Little sounds tended to do that; I know what a thief sounds like. It's as simple as listening to myself breathe.

The best defense in this case was ignorance. Pretending anything would give me away. I wasn't just looking like a guard, I _was_ a guard. A fat, professional, overconfident, self-important man; possibly not supposed to be where he was. So, slightly nervous, a little top-heavy, and more than a bit eager to get out of there.

I heard it again, a few feet away from where it had been the last time, and louder. Now, any good cop would investigate, but was I really a good cop? Not a bad cop certainly, so maybe mediocre? Right; like any mediocre cop, I looked at the spot, and started walking that way. "Excuse me? Is someone there?" Adding a tiniest bit of quaver to my voice capped the persona nicely.

Nothing happened, then a sinuous form, slinked around the edge of a drape. I had no trouble gulping. This was a _professional_ thief. Too public for my taste, rumored to have a thing going for Spider-Man, recipient of super powers, and considered to be one of the most attractive people on the planet, just under Mary Jane Watson and Susan Richards. From my own viewpoint, this woman was an easy contender for first place. It was like her black skinsuit and white fur-encased cleavage was a magnet; I forced my eyes away, nervousness did not need to be simulated. Attractive women do that to me – ironic.

"Why, officer," she purred. "I didn't know you were in here, what a … surprise." One hand reached forward, teasing at a pocket on my vest. I ignored the silvery decorative points on the white-gloved fingertips. Possibly not decorative at all – so, five lethal weapons dancing around the region of my thoracic cavity. Not worrisome at all.

Regaining control, I stepped back, thinking fast. She'd been seen in Brooklyn yesterday! What was she doing here? "Sorry, ma'am. I didn't realize the party guests had started arriving." Was it my imagination, or did she look worried for a tiny moment? She should have, no party was scheduled that I knew of, and no thief liked being surprised by a literal party. "I'll just let you get ready; the bedroom is back there, and I'm sure the boss would be glad to see you too."

For the barest moment, I saw anger in her eyes. My veiled – and blatantly ignorant – suggestion of her occupation must have stung. Or, she felt hurt by the lack of recognition? But, she flashed a grin in my direction, pouting a little. "Oh don't worry about it, darling. I saw the door open and just let myself in. Incidentally," her white-gloved hand started towards me again; I 'clumsily' inched backwards, closer to the door. "Would you happen to have the key? Mine is missing somehow."

Quick, tiny steps took me the rest of the way to the doorway, words hurried. "Sorry ma'am, I just have the copy they gave me. Haveagoodday!"

Fleeing felt like victory. It's not often you cross paths with the self-proclaimed Queen of Thieves. It's regularly said that just meeting her is bad luck; she's not called the Black Cat for nothing. That brought a thought to mind; I reached to the little chain on my left flank: the key was gone.

I recalled a fun fact, learned in my youth: in England, black cats were considered lucky; even more so when they enter a house uninvited. At the moment, I wholeheartedly agreed with the English sentiment. My key was missing, and that was important.

To most people, it would be an irritating thing, a realization of being outwitted. To me, it was actually a bit of a compliment. My performance was good enough that she believed my role; hard to do when the person you're fooling is such an excellent judge of character. When survival requires a superbly honed ability to read a target, it becomes second nature to detect the little lies we tell ourselves throughout the day. More dangerously, the lies we tell others become far more obvious. Things like: "That dress looks great on you!" or "I didn't eat the last donut, honest."

Or maybe she thought nothing of such an incompetent thief-slash-cop like me. Either way, all I had to do was get away.

Ahead, the exit into the evening light looked welcoming. A few steps away; no guards in sight. Except for the one tied to the pillar, unconscious. I snorted. _Subtle, Cat. Subtle_.

Outside, my pace picked up from the leisurely stroll to a more businesslike walk. My next change of clothes waited in a duffel bag, stashed at the local gym. Since the gym was only a few dozen feet off the villa property, it made the covert shift simple and easy – two words I love to hear. As my observations had shown, my exfiltration route remained unbothered by actual security guards; they tended to keep to the same pattern whenever no one was actually home. Now if the homeowner had actually been in the villa, it would have been a different story; varied patrols staggered with different people, check-ins every five minutes, active sensor monitoring … still do-able, but much more work.

I'm lazy. Cut me some slack.

Getting to the fence was easy. Without the key, I had to incorporate a little acting; struggling with the lock until another guard helpfully opened the door for me. He didn't check to see why my apartment key wasn't working on the high-security entrance. Complacency is the bane of humanity.

So I trekked onward, shedding the 'Kevlar' vest and slinging it over one arm. Given the number of security guards Osbourne employed in the area, I attracted no attention.

Five minutes later plus one change of clothes, and Tom 'Seneca' McNichols, contract protector of _Dos Hermanos_ was gone, replaced by Guy Brisbane, ace reporter for a blog no one ever reads. I even put articles on it every month, the desperate kind of writing most often seen by bad authors on fan-fiction websites.

As I left, I couldn't help glancing back at the villa, admiring its outline in the waning light. Guards were still on their regular rounds, but on the rooftop, silhouetted in a point where no one inside the grounds could see, was a dark figure on the roof; silver gleamed for a moment, and the head seemed remarkable in its reflective properties – like shiny white hair. Or a pair of reflective goggles. The roof guard wasn't due to appear for another fifteen minutes, which meant human vagaries, or one petty thief, was at work.

I gave the distant individual a little wave, and went on my way, cheap digital camera snapping pictures of anything and everything. I even got a young couple to take my picture with the villa in the background. I never got their last names, but Wanda looked exotic, and the guy she was with seemed polite … cold, but polite.

At any rate, after carefully putting the camera's memory card in an insulated case, I got into my taxi-yellow Lamborghini and drove off, over-revving the engine a few times, just to show off to the pretty young ladies draping themselves on its sleek flanks.

Just kidding, I hitched a ride from a taxi-yellow taxi. It smelled like diesel and curry, but had a very friendly driver, eager to discuss his intentions for establishing a restaurant for which New York had a desperate need. Oh, and ridiculously comfortable seats – oops, I lied again. The seats were terrible, but had a good, visible structure. Springs everywhere. From that cultural experience, I transferred to a public transit service; the bus.

That conveyance conveyed me to Brooklyn, where I took a subway farther north. When the line ended, I walked, acquiring a lift from an exceedingly friendly locale, whom I had to dissuade from mugging me by means of fisticuffs, and a generous exhibition of my mastery in common physics.

Primitives. Honestly.

After borrowing the hoodlum's car – which was left near a police station – I walked the last few blocks to an apartment complex. My brother owns it, and rents me a room in the basement for a phenomenal, nominal, fee.

"Tyyyler," I sang out, walking down the last flight of stairs. "I'm hoooommmmeeeeee!"

The scraping of wheels responded almost immediately. My brother's wheelchair whirred into sight. "Did you do it?"

I dropped the pouch of gemstones into a lead-lined container next to the door, ready for just such an occasion. A miniaturized Faraday wiring set into the thick walls hummed to life. "Fine, thanks. How are you?"

His intent gaze softened. "Sorry, how are you?"

"Success," I grinned. "Program went in no problem, and I picked up a few gewgaws to make it look good."

Tyler rolled closer, pausing just outside safe range. "Excellent. And the hard-drive performed adequately?"

Tossing it into his lap, I started moving again, headed for the kitchen. Theft made me hungry. "Didn't fry it. Got better control than that, even when Black Cat showed up."

The wheels scraped against a wire lying on the ground, "Black Cat? Did she spot you? Trackers?"

"Pickpocketed my master key. Thought I was a guard." Ham and cheese would be great, and easily made on a propane stove. No microwaves for me, thanks.

My brother followed, as persistent as the methodical laborer with which his name affiliated. "But the tracker? We've theorized about that possibility for years!"

I snorted. "Tech. Me. Remember what happened when I got too close to your wheelchair last month, and got irritated?"

To his credit, Tyler winced. While brothers, we had very different personalities – in case it wasn't obvious. He tends to be cautious, introverted, and worried about everything while I tend to be cautious, introverted and find it hard to care about much. Comes from being unable to move freely in a world made of touchy electronics, like a father's pacemaker.

"Right, right. Continuing on an alternative venue," Tyler shifted directions. "Did the Osbourne's have anything good?"

That brought a smile to my face. "There's the Tyler we all know and love; what happened to you? Did bad-ol' worrywart Tylie hide you away?" Before he could respond, I continued. "Some decent art, Rococo style. Some safes I didn't have time to check, two panic rooms with waaaaay too many locks to be an actual room for panic. A Lotus in the carpark, two vintage corvettes, and a Rolls somewhere in the back."

We both knew I was just reeling off the highlights. Norman Osbourne is one of the wealthiest – and crookedest – businessmen in the world. When you have that much money, my little excursion wouldn't be felt by one of his lower minions. In all likelihood, it would be replaced within a few days, if it was even noticed in the first place. "Not the most I've ever seen, but certainly not the worst."

"A mistress then," Tyler rubbed his chin. "Mayhap a simple tax break subterfuge. Yet such explanations do not clarify _her_ presence."

I rolled my eyes. "She's a thief. I'm a thief. Well, mostly. We probably just had a good idea at the same time."

"No, no-no-no-no." My brother rolled away, disappearing into the Faraday Cage construct surrounding his mysterious laboratory. I'd had my suspicions as to why a computer lab was right next to the kitchen, but kept them to myself. Every man is allowed a few secrets. The energy barrier preventing electromagnetic waves from somehow jumping vast distances distorted his voice. "No one commits resources without good reason. We had ours, what was hers'?"

Pure deliciousness began heating on the burner. I took the opportunity to change; yes in the kitchen. It was warm, close at hand, and held an extra pair of pants in one of the cupboards.

My brother knows me very well.

While changing, something hit the linoleum, clicking against the hard floor. I waited until I had a new pair of pants on, something less form-fitting – and picked it up. "Hey, Tyler? You might've been right …."

"Be still my pulsating heart," he called back. "To what deity should I give thanks for this insight?"

I turned the object over in one hand, very careful to keep my power in check. "I found a bug."

There was a crash from the lab, and a squealing of tires. I didn't know you could do that with a wheelchair … learn something's old every day. The mechanized wheelchair blew through the barrier like smoke, coming to a stop well inside my safe zone. "Where? Whatisitwheredidyoufind – " his gaze fell on the palm of my hand. "Oh."

I turned it over. Its nature was undoubtedly espionage, given the little antenna and tiny hooks. The miniscule bits of smoke rising through invisible cracks, based on my exemplary knowledge of forensic computer science, allowed me to deduce there wasn't much that could be done to resuscitate it.

"Well," it rolled in my hand, oddly heavy. "At least it didn't track me."

His voice moved upwards, "You can't be certain, you don't know!"

The metal sparked in my hand. Tyler gasped, rolling back out of range. "Knut! You're – "

I stopped the bug's movement, trapping it between thumb and palm. The sparks died out, sinking into my skin. The sensation felt like it always did, a little ticklish, a tad creepy and more than a little invigorating. "Must have sparked it a while back; internal energy. Feels like an hour or so, maybe right after I left the villa."

Reluctantly, Tyler approached again. "You've been running electromotive-force through that for the past hour? That is … impressive."

I took a step back, after laying the tracking device on the counter. My power ruins electronics, anything near me. Fantastic for getting rid of evidence, terrible for living with a family that has a need for electricity-based hardware. I don't know much about the X-men, I certainly don't trust Magneto's Brotherhood, and the Fantastic Four or Avengers would be … less than forgiving of my actions. Yeah, they've taken in criminals before, but they've also made really asinine decisions too … so no. We've learned to compromise: I stay away from the hardware while I learn control, they stay from me while I learn control. Well, if they knew I existed. Which I doubt.

Small-time thieves are a rarity for Big People. They don't notice clever, handsome people that lurk in the shadows after the famous things are already gone. I'm just that good.

My brother on the other hand is an electronics genius, built his own wheelchair after a few courses in design. He has a recently discovered condition, m-type muscular dystrophy. Seems that all the genetic shifting going on isn't just meta-powers and fantastic hair – he got the short end of the stick. Medical terms are long, but if he strays too far from a source of electricity, his heart stops.

Oddly, he can be near me without a power source just fine. But since neither of us cares to be quite that close for so long, he built the chair. And I stay away from it.

He picked it up from the countertop, feeling it for himself. "Obviously a custom job. Special-run titanium as well, off market creation … spectro-analysis will give me the composition, but not the manufacturer. I need to start a new file."

The data sailed over my head, making a little whistling noise as it did so. "It's cute. A little paint and it could be an actual bug, not just a doodad."

Tyler scooted across the floor, power supply humming under his seat. "I will store it for analysis. Meanwhile," he glanced back to me. "There has been a complaint about the pipes in the Penthouse."

"Again?" I groaned, "That's the third time this month! Why can't they just take showers like normal people?"

His chuckling didn't improve my mood any.

Grumbling, I made my way to my half of the subterranean apartment, taking my clothes – and my sandwich – with me. There I spent an enjoyable ten minutes consuming the delicate confection, and setting up the spectrum analyzer for the gemstones. The container was both wired with a Faraday cage, and lead-lined, because of geeks like my brother and their wont of tiny signal devices that could 'flare.' While we had alternative accommodations, moving would be a pain in the neck. Better to just stash the loot in a signal-proof box, and overcharge it with enough power to destroy anything with wires.

Having fully changed clothes, and ballasted with a decently-made sandwich, I went over to the maintenance elevator. Its chains locked the entire doorway shut in a fashion that left them unreachable from the inside. A metahuman could smash the whole thing open, but that triggered an entirely different response. I doubt the Fantastic Four have a napalm bomb hitched up to their basement. Or an anvil welded to four _svardstafen_ blades, high in the elevator shaft.

I undid the latch, avoiding the panel my brother used. So far, we'd never had to replace anything, but we'd been lucky.

The elevator took me up to the thirtieth floor, inside the janitor's closet. There was one on each level, a safe position for me to enter. Since the building was rather old, it had enough space for two elevators: one public and one private. With a sigh, I exited, straightening my collar. _Thief by night, janitor by day; that's the way the little boys play._

I'm not the world's best-known thief. I'm just the best.

* * *

 _A/N:_ _So, my first venture into the First Person Point-of-View. I've had this character bounce around in the darker corners of my mind for over three years now, and at last it sees the light of day!_

 _Thanks to Nightstride for his beta work, and a shout-out to Tyler, whom has the admirable trait of looking at something and saying: "Why don't we turn it up to 11, and kick in the afterburner?"_

 _Special thanks to SchadenFreude95, who frankly inspired me to write a comic-book tale. Thanks!_

 _Like this? Think it needs improvement? Want more? Review!_


	2. Higher and Deeper

Living the mundane existence of an ordinary apartment manager was a relaxing sensation, similar to how I'd imagine a magician felt while returning to his home realm. I ran the usual checks, wandered the floors and helped corral two toddlers and a parrot – the toddlers were noisier by far. There was very little crime in our establishment, criminal are are frowned upon severely by management. They know what a thief looks like; all I have to do is find a mirror.

Being a full-time manager of an apartment complex is surprisingly time-consuming. It's not too dissimilar to juggling flaming knives, with the assorted moth making unpredictable suicide runs at your face. An apartment complex so close to New York City proper, even if in one of the boroughs, is staggeringly expensive. Taxes on utilities alone could run a small South American village for a year. Add in the extras like repairs, maintenance and upgrades, and the endeavor becomes nigh unaffordable. A salary that would enrich someone living in Indiana would beggar a man in The Big Apple.

For some reason … * _cough cough_ * … my brother and I have never run the risk of funding issues. Thanks to certain shrewd investments, we've even been able to keep pricing fair – which makes us a very attractive proposition for many folk. Flush with said attractiveness, we can pick and choose tenants.

That reminded me: I had to make sure we were paid up on the Kingpin side. Possibly the Eclectic Eccentrics too – they were a small gang, but had a grudge capacity worthy of a much higher weight class. They'd be gone in a few weeks, taking on some group that held a similar grudge ability but had the guns to back it up.

Ah, but the housekeeping was done. That meant play time!

"Open sesame." The elevator doors obeyed for once; it was difficult for me to make actual voice commands work. I was usually forced to use sleight-of-hand, concealing how I stepped on precision-balanced pressure plates arranged in the hallway, in a specific order. Using the vocal command gave me practice in control.

Practice I desperately needed.

Behind the doors a yawning chasm opened. My particular little routine sent the elevator to the roof, which left the long pole down open for a bit of harmless fun.

Sliding down ten stories with nothing but your own skills keeping you alive was exhilarating. Also frightening. Once I'd sneezed at the fifth floor, making one hand exceptionally slippery.

Not fun.

But I reached the sub-basement in good order, all limbs accounted for and no falling elevator to race. My hands were already dipping into the shelf filled with new packets of cards; over time the material lost its stiffness, bending and fraying to the point where a child could predict which back went with what front. Such a form of card marking I believed nature had developed to defend the weak-minded; another defense was exceptional cuteness. Mice existed as pets for that very reason. Certain celebrities too – inanity such as I could see on the grocery store shelves could only be explained by that.

"Resuming your regimen of trickery?" My brother came into sight as I entered the main living room we shared. A small table separated our positions, a miniature barrier between his sanity and my personal brand of order. Our living room had low tables instead of chairs; my Special Sitting Place was the only such construct in the room, and consisted of mainly a comfortable seat on casters. Everything else was hard, polished concrete and a few tasteful throw rugs.

"Card mechanics."

His quizzical look passed over my head, dodged by my expert skills in practiced obliviousness.

I nodded, sorting the deck. "That's the proper term."

Tyler stared at me. The wheels churning behind his eyes were almost as visible as the dangerously electronic components settled in his lap. Pieces that – not to put too fine a point on – resembled playing card shapes, if not colors. "Peradventure have you begun self-referencing with such a sobriquet?"

The cards cascaded from one hand to the other. I could tell their progress without looking, feeling individual edges rustle past my thumb. "Look, I don't mind when you call yourself a Pioneer of Matrical Injun Earring–"

"Electrical engineering," he corrected.

I pulled the ace of spades out, just where I'd left it. "You don't even drive a train, Ty. The closest you ever get is that model we set up in the lobby every Christmas."

Realization dawned behind his glasses. "Ah. You are mocking me."

"Quite well, too." The cards riffled in a one-handed shuffle. A little something to impress small children and child-like adults like me.

My twin shook his head, clearing his thoughts, missing the smile I hid just as swiftly. Sometimes he needed to stop thinking and enjoy life. He spent far too much time sitting behind a computer, typing reports and worrying about life. I loved him like a brother – with good reason – but the man could frustrate me like no other. Which was somewhat the point, really. What else was a brother for but causing frustration and camaraderie?

"So," the ace made its way through the deck, forced into position with my thumb picking a spot. "Any progress on the Osborn front?"

An aggravated sigh emanated from the other side of the table. Tyler leaned back, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Unfortunately, no. His encryptions are too sensitive for brute-force coding, even with a Trojan providing access. Systematic evaluation suggests off-site data-storage, likely within high-security domains."

"Hmph." I selected another card, and began practicing the sleeve pop. Street magic's bread and butter relies on sleight-of-hand – not terribly different from a good thief. "Can't go with the merc angle then?"

"Unfortunately, no." My brother watched the card carefully. His eyes widened as the target card flipped out of the wrong sleeve. "Your prestidigitation improves."

"Thanks, I think?"

"You're welcome. But, _rex ipsa loquitar_. We are increasingly bereft of alternatives and may need to purse a more … direct methodology."

Several cards spilled from my grasp, falling in random quantities of predetermined locale. Any true prestidigitator would know to check my hand for the palmed pass. I threw that off by following a false shuffle with a false running cut, making a false assumption the right decision. Guessing was a bad habit, the best gamblers knew probability better than professional statisticians. Enforcing a decision upon others while making it seem to be their own free will was the skill of politicians and magicians alike; being a thief was not terribly different, albeit I would argue more honest. Politicians exist to convince their constituents they are allies – magicians and their audiences know they are at odds.

Then his words penetrated my sometimes dense cranium. "Wait. You want me to … what?"

His tired expression did not change.

"Oh. Wonderful."

* * *

I left the room at speed, leaving the card deck up on the shelf. This was not good. Not. Good.

To date I'd acquired materials from all over the world. I'd burned more identities than Carter had liver pills, evaded the scopes from every agency in the world, and achieved more unofficial miles than an astronaut. Unless non-human operatives had some kind of technology that could detect my presence, I was a ghost in any electronic system.

The weakness was obvious: any non-electronic system would see me just fine. All it took was one conscientious employee writing six foot man with beard would be at least half right on my description. That's why I took disguises, mixed and matched, making myself memorable for all the wrong reasons.

"Let's see," I reached my closet. Well, one of my closets. While no superhero, as the apartment super I could acquire hardware for closety-needs with no one being the wiser. Yet another misdirection for nosy people – my deepest, darkest secret is a love of clothing. Woe is me.

This would be a three-outfit job, possibly four. One tear-away, three standard. Planning for the infiltration had been in the works for over a year, once the perpetrator was identified, but it didn't mean I had to like it. Osborn ran one of the best-known tech developing corporations in the world. His hardware rivaled Tony Stark's own genius, equaled Roxxon and positively dwarfed other companies. Norman Osborn was also entirely ruthless, leveraging every possible advantage out of anything he could get his hands on. _Stalking Horse_ gambits, the old _Naked Shorting_ tactic, insider trading – the legendary Kingpin was better at interpersonal tactics, but he was outclassed by the financial acumen of Norman Osborn.

"Higher stakes then." I selected a good base outfit, nondescript and somewhat tight. It was a good foundation; combine it with a decent bit of face paint and my escape plan was intact. Then I caught myself talking, and frowned. Talking to one's self, counter to modern politics, was indeed a sign of insanity.

Alert guards aside, a good eavesdropper would overhear any careless statement. For the rest of my final selections, I kept my mouth firmly closed.

This particular … infiltration. Yes, infiltration, would require a mindset. I had to get my head in the game, take on the persona of not only my cover identity but the underlying people beneath that persona. Makeup was a must – I'd been purchasing quality products from dealers in the area for years now; it helped the local economy, gave me a number of contacts, and established my reputation as a caring super. It's not just every apartment manager that would dicker with old ladies over the pricing of mascara, right? I'd even gotten moderately talented at applying it, and prosthetic facial parts too.

What. Like I'd enter a high-security target looking like myself?

All right. Makeup on, and checked. Outfits loaded, and checked. Backup lockers in the usual positions, and checked. There was a definite new mission for me, this time with such an auspicious beginning: taking out the trash, and continuing on my way. Washing hands, of course, was a must. Were I to break such an obvious habit as cleanliness, my cover might be blown. Then again, habits were predictable. Being predictable got people killed.

Conversely, a lack of cleanliness helped the Black Plague become the widespread issue that it was … and the face paint was more of a base than alteration ….

Freshly clean, I set out once more. This time it took a few busses, one wig-donning, a leisurely walk, one train ride, and a few minutes setting up. Public restrooms were exceedingly handy for such a thing, especially if one practiced in a large cardboard box.

Before leaving the stall I closed my eyes, concentrating. 'First you have to shorten your stride, carry a little extra weight. Fat people and little steps. Confident, and fat. Cheerful, optimistic, fat. Happy thoughts, not a deceitful bone in your body. Smiles and electrical fortitude, I bring both. It's the best of times, it's the even better of times – okay. Got it.'

Contrary to popular media, infiltrating a multi-billion dollar security complex is not so simple as just putting on a maintenance uniform and spouting techno-babble at the security guard. A proper protection detail checks registration numbers, names, superior orders and often notes down each visitor in a careful script. While my innate curse could easily wipe a computer chip, it would be indiscriminate – fire-bombing the place would be less obvious.

I have seen multiple solutions to this issue. Most of them were from court records, interrogations put on public access with the entire 'Freedom of Information' act. I have rarely been impressed. Idiots that substitute cleverness for intelligence often show up there.

Nodding to the next guy in line, I pulled my hard hat out of a bag. Safety gear is everywhere, and no one inspects it on an active maintenance worker. Junk sales for the win!

"Hey, you."

I turned to face the speaker, smiling a big friendly grin. "Hey yourself. What's up?"

A manager-looking person walked towards me, perfectly coiffed hair settled atop a pressed suit. Even his shoes looked polished to the point of reflecting sunlight, if any made it down this far. I checked his gait, watching how one foot swung out a little further than the other, and observed how his hands swung in little ovals instead of straight lines. It's the tiny details that catch out thieves, little things. He bustled up to me oozing an air of importance.

"Where's McGregor? The Network promised he'd be here twenty minutes ago, is everything all right?"

My plan adjusted itself one hair. "Good news, he'll be fine. Sorry, I'm McGuffin, replacement. Network needed someone here immediately, and I was both on call and nearby. What's the situation?"

"Oh, good." For a moment the manager looked as if he'd pursue the alleged illness of Mister McGregor, whose current condition involved an attack of money and a casino out of state. "The electrical system in the sub-basement level is having some issues. Do you know how to get there?"

I responded with a cheerful grin. "Sure do! Gary gave me a heads up. Said something about the server room needing some help too?"

"No, no," the manager immediately closed up, arms going close to his sides. "In-house is taking care of that. But the public connection is a little finicky right now. Can you fix it?"

Another wide smile seemed in order, reinforcing the stereotype and all. "Well, sure there's pigeons on the roof I can do it! Sorry, what's your name again? I'll tell Gary you asked after him."

Pleasantries aside, I moved on. Weeks of observation and actual days of time spent in the architecture plans were enough. In addition, one Gary McGregor had been desirous of a vacation in a classy Brooklyn casino; convincing him to call in sick had taken minimal effort. Greater effort had been needed to ensure one Owen McGuffin to be appropriately accredited through the local union, but again people are predictable and lazy.

Being fond of donations is a remarkable weakness. Especially when those weaknesses come with apparent, obvious desires. Perhaps I was being obvious with the fake name, I was regretting it already. What had my mad brother been thinking? This wasn't professional, this was _taunting_. Taunting got people caught and put away for a long time. Yeah I didn't exist in most systems and charging me would be a bear, but that made my getting apprehended so much more of a problem! The Supers could get involved – the ones not involved with apartments. Bad on top of bad, and enough to throw me off my game.

If I were actually unprofessional. Hah.

Anyway, Electrician McGuffin made his way into the darker places of this OsCorp tower, and began to work with the cables. Knut the Thief – still not the right time to go over my last name – faded into the mental foreground.

I was reasonably confident of having several hours to work. While my respect for the Union is high, there have been multiple union workers of my acquaintance that ensure their position is paid by-the-hour. So long as one looked busy, and had visual proof of hard labor in progress, no one suspected.

"Red goes to red, blue goes to blue," I muttered under my breath. Then I raised my voice. "Nope, safety first. Hey, I need to cut the power to the room. Shouldn't hit anything else, aright?"

Echoing silence resounded back in my direction. Taking that as an affirmative, I exerted my innate blessing. Immediately the lights dimmed, then turned out.

Moving swiftly I walked back out of the room, shedding my uniform. Beneath that layer of camouflage lay my next layer of protection.

Donning my best shocked and dismayed expression, I charged for the stairs, rumbled tweed jacket flapping. Emergency lighting took on the burden of showing me the way, flickering low in my presence. My control wasn't so good as to prevent that, but no one would connect the power outage to Professor Ronald J. Kuchenhauser, serious but little-known specialist in cucumber beetles.

 _'Five locomotive four locomotive three locomotive,'_ seconds ticked past my mind. Weeks of practice on apartment stairwells came into play; a somewhat stodgy jump exhibiting beginning senescence of a former athlete. Timing was critical; he might be there, or he might not. If not, I'd go with Plan B. _'Two locomotive one locomotive.'_

Dim lighting presented my experienced eyes with the target: Doctor Jones, Artificial Intelligence Specialist. My left shoe's laces were professionally untied, tossing around my foot like a mad Scylla's St. Vitus dance. Tragically, oh so very tragically, it seemed to catch my progress, and the pudgy form of a contractual entomology consultant found the wispy body of a glorified programmer.

Chaos. Beautiful, wondrous chaos. It is the mythical origin of every pantheon across the known world. From chaos spawned Ymir, and the father of Titans. Chaos became the noble foe of Roman armies and Greek philosophers, joined in part by the esoteric folk like the Sorcerer Supreme and the just plain weird people like Fin Fang Foom. I'd heard rumors to the effect that the Avengers and A-class superheroes journeyed beyond the ken of mortal man, fighting the monstrous defenders of chaos in the Obligation of Order.

I can't do anything about that. What I could do was ensure an underweight master of electronics emptied his pockets on the dim staircase.

Amidst the exclamations, apologies and general melee, I acquired a thumb drive perhaps two inches long and covered in titanium. My own pocket held a number of thumb drives, sealed in lead and difficult to reach. One of them looked almost exactly like it – but was it the same size?

"I beg your pardon, so sorry!" Every erg of concentration I could spare was focused on preventing my unique curse from frying the silver object. Power around me in the superstructure resumed its normal paths, and the lighting brightened, a necessary sacrifice. Continuing to disrupt the energy of the building while handling a one-of-a-kind data collection was theoretically within my capabilities, but I was nowhere near proficient enough to pull it off. A pity too; it would make things so much easier in almost every respect. But I was woolgathering again, daydreaming of a wishful dream. Back to work. "Are you all right? Shoelaces, untied. Blasted thing."

On a personal level, I gave my acting around seven out of ten. Not good enough for professional work, better than an amateur. What with my concentration focusing on the thumb drive, I couldn't devote everything to the performance – how large was it?

'Five-twelve gee. Got it.'

Whilst helping the good doctor – the term used in the loosest possible sense for those who knew of Doctor Jones – I managed to get my own version of the thumb drive out of the case and replace the dropped version. It's a simple switch for someone skilled in certain arts, not unlike card tricks where the eye is caught on a slightly less shiny point, certain that it's responsible for the trick, while ignorant of the true deception in the deck.

Successful, the power flickered once more with my interference, and I gave a gasp of horror. "My samples!"

No one questions a professorial-looking individual racing around, muttering about storage temperatures. Doctor Kuchenhauser had to make it back to my start point soon, or Mister McGuffin would be missed.

* * *

Down in the depths of an OsCorp basement, I stuffed my tweed jacket into the mechanic kit. My fat suit was highly insulator, retaining enough heat manufactured from my little run to make me sweat. Fortunately the pants were tear-away, and another set of easy-remove white materials lurked beneath.

Once again I pushed my capacity into the building's power central, making the lights flicker. This time I pulled harder, forcing the energy into chaotic whorls. At this rate I'd wiped the memories of a few cell phones on accident; whether that was good thing or bad I had no idea. More chaos was a good thing, but wiped chips could bring attention in the wrong direction – unless a certain electrician found a unique hardware error? An overpowered link perhaps?

Releasing my metaphysical hold felt … good. Like doing a hundred pushups after a five mile run, after a two mile swim. Perhaps a repeat performance would help my control in the future?

Thoughts for another time.

Deeper inside the guts of the OsCorp power connections, I found a suitable scapegoat, should it be necessary. It was a power cable thicker than my thigh, climbing from the floor into the ceiling. Already there were a few strange tear points, like a large toothed gear had slammed into it a few times. Whatever the reason, there was no real surprise for me. The lovely region of New York, New York had seen everything from alien invasions to hostile reptile creations running amok through its sewers. My home suffered its share of combustible impacts, why couldn't OsCorp?

But … why would a well-maintained location, _inside_ an OsCorp main building have something like this? I knew the blueprints, basic models were available from City Hall for a nominal fee. This wasn't the central base plan, and yet there was a whacking enormous line sitting behind a lot of near-useless cables. Almost – as if – hiding there ….

Instinct prompted a retreat, perhaps something involving rockets and speeds past the sonic barrier? Instead, I made a half-hearted effort to slash the insulating material with a spare bit of metal, but the stuff resisted.

This was getting _very_ odd. Even a building like OsCorp shouldn't need so much power as what that cable could deliver. I'd seen power lines that thick before, typically on military bases and elite research bases.

Then I stopped to take a look. A _real_ look and not the half-hearted scanning I'd been doing.

Power flowed up and down that line, enough to operate a dozen skyscrapers with every utility turned on. As my senses stretched inwards my opinion changed. Each of those skyscrapers could be operating a laser strong enough to char a stealth jet, all at the same time, given the power running through that line. This was a nuclear generator grade system operating in the headquarters of OsCorp, definitely illegal according to city planning regs.

Survival urges reared their collective ugly heads in my mind. _'You knew he was corrupt. Why are you surprised?'_

Something like this was blatant. Obvious. The contractor I currently replaced hadn't needed much encouragement to skive off duty; it stood to reason other masters had bribed him as well.

 _'Why here? How much power could one research center need?'_ My next thought made a run for the forefront of my brain. A stronger concept muscled past, hammering on the paranoia button all mammalian minds possess. _'Secrets this big don't stay hidden without blood sacrifice. Get out. Get out now.'_

A tiny segment of common sense made valiant effort, and succeeded in regaining the floor. _'McGuffin the Electrician wouldn't run like a bat out of hell. He'd note it, submit it, and suffer the consequences.'_

Fortunate it was that Mister McGuffin did not need to survive any longer than the next train depot. Making a new identity hurt, but living long enough to feel that pain meant I was still alive. That was one habit I fully intended to embrace until death did us part.

 _'Back up, look busy, and act natural.'_

Head once again firm upon its shoulders, I returned to the room's outer edges, fiddling with the connections. There were a few loose points, bits of gadgetry that looked deliberately loose; my newfound suspicions of Mister McGregor conjured all sorts of tantalizing reasons. Did he set up planned obsolescence here? Was this a trap, arranged for me? Did my other jobs on OsCorp hardware, and to be honest, Roxxon and Stark systems, finally percolate into the Corporate Conscience?

No. I was a complete unknown. Every network my brother and I had infiltrated contained no information about us whatsoever. I'd even made it into the FBI's secret files once, and they had no records on me except for the usual birth certificate and basic licensing references. Petty theft then … McGregor was a crook. Set up the switches to fail every six months and bam: regular employment. If he was being bribed, then each arrival meant another bribe, effective and cheap.

While it would cut into his income, I felt no compunction in fixing the easily-repaired parts the way they should have been. It only took a few minutes; felonious McGregor may have been, but the man knew how to fake a good break.

"There you are!"

Jumping in place, making a manly sound of surprise did not take much effort to simulate. _'I am losing my edge. Heist Number Forty-Three is where I'm getting killed. Dead. Expired. No more. I am an Ex-Thief.'_

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," the manager-looking person smiled. His amusement was understandable, seeing tubby people bounce had to be entertaining. "Just wanted to check on you, see how things were getting what with that power surge."

I shook myself, not hard enough to betray the fat suit's falsity, but enough to be realistic. "N-not a problem. Sorry, been a little jumpy since … well … you know. A few months back."

His understanding nod, charismatic smile gleaming, appeared to share understanding. If he did, I hoped he'd let me know; I had no clue what I meant. But this was New York, and strangeness was our stock in trade.

"Of course. Now," his manner changed a miniscule amount. "Do you know what happened? The power upstairs flickered a few times, and I thought of you down here, see anything?"

"See? No. Hear? There was a bit of rumbling, down underneath somewhere maybe an hour ago. Figured it was the trains," I frowned, staring at the polished concrete beneath my feet. "Thought it sounded a bit, ah, uneven, but what else could it be? Haven't left the room since I got here though, can't say as to what coulda' happened out there."

His smile thinned, just barely. If I hadn't been looking for it, I would've missed it. "Indeed. Well, how's the progress?"

My grin reappeared. "Well fine! I figured out the problem pretty quick, the setup looks like it got a bit rattled. Loose connections, a few bad solders, got over half of 'em fixed, should have the rest done inside an hour, tops."

The smile resumed its shining presence. "Excellent. Do you know what could've gone wrong? It's a bit early for the six month check you know."

Tricky; full disclosure would get McGregor fired. Nothing would get me tailed. Compromise.

"Couldn't say for sure. Maybe it was a bad batch of solder, or maybe one of those city-shakers got to 'em? Think it could've been put together a bit better than it was, but that's just me. A bit slow, but I get the job done."

His pupils narrowed, focused on me like targeting sights. "Just so you know, I checked the video footage. You haven't been seen leaving the room, which checks out with your story. Thank you for your honesty."

"Of course! Thanks Harry. I'll get this puppy buttoned down tight and you won't have to worry about it no more."

"Very good." The sound of running feet came through the connecting hall, skidding to a stop outside. A man in full ballistic gear poked his head in, drawing an eye-roll from the manager. "Yes? Now what?"

The newcomer had a large mustache, a brilliant affair wide enough to reach his cheekbones. I had to copy the look for my next caper. "Sorry sir, the boss wanted you to come in for the meeting with Mister Stark and the Senator. They're waiting on the Penthouse floor."

My mind froze, body working with the mannerisms trained into it through all the past years hard labor. The manager stalked out of the room, and I couldn't help but notice his build with new eyes. Slight, but wiry. Not a massive man, but certainly well put together. Expensive clothing adorned his frame, not quite top-tier, but certainly above the middle-manager with an expensive hobby I'd assumed.

Now more than ever I was thankful for my little gift. Being covered from surveillance was one of the greatest uses I'd ever made from it. Not the _only_ use, but the best.

The next fifty minutes rolled by in a blur. I could have done it much faster of course; some of my jobs required precision metalworking on a level far above the average electrician. But going too fast would have raised much suspicion, if the wrong mind became suspicious.

Once everything was sealed tight, I leaned against the wall, sliding down into a squatting position. _'Lockdown. Power, down. Reduce. Reuse. Recycle.'_ Controlling myself to the point where cameras could see me was impossible. I mean, _literally_ impossible. The only pictures my own family had are either taken through mechanical versions, with the chemical film, or date back to my pre-teen years. The first time we noticed my power in action was during a school photo shoot, when the school photographer believed his digital camera was broken. But here and now, I had to try. I had to exert more effort than almost anything else I'd tried with it. Building is harder than destroying after all. _'Silence. Attain the Power of Average. Be No One. Become Normal.'_

I could feel something quivering, not a physical sensation like muscles after a long workout, but an almost humming quality. It coiled inside, lurking just beneath my skin, like a shield. If it worked, and weren't so difficult, it would be remarkably useful; no scanner could penetrate my skin, not x-rays, CAT scans or DOG scans – if someone other than my brother invented the latter.

Don't ask.

But the main purpose was to just mask my presence; even the best cameras ignore me, which was not what I hoped to happen in the immediate future. Where security is concerned, the cheaper the better, and OsCorp was like any other company in the end. Or so I hoped – otherwise Mister McGuffin would likely have a major asthma attack and move to Tennessee. Or his paperwork would.

Settled once more, I walked out of the room into the main hallway. It was clear, filled with the average blue-collar workers, mixing with the average white-collar workers. I blended right in, working my way along the route back to the trains.

Everything went well, at first. People flowed around me, I did my best to flow with the people. Humans are social creatures, and like schools of fish, we keep a very small area as 'personal' space, and react to those invading it. Country-folk have a much larger 'personal' space, as do the more dangerous people in the combative sense. Invade either, and you get either a dirty look or a kick in the teeth – I like country people for that reason. They don't kick me.

I first became aware of my follower after entering the train. It was a little thing, a camera-phone pointed in my direction. But the face behind it was wrapped in frustration as it refused to focus on me.

A casual turn away made his efforts moot. Within five minutes my next stop arrived, and I meandered off.

He was persistent though, coming after me in an almost-convincing display of casual movement. His clothes weren't suited for the location however, branding him as an outsider to everyone, including myself. This time I waited around a corner until he arrived, and deliberately bumped into him.

"Watch it!" he covered magnificently, imitating a surly man in the wrong place at the wrong time. Perhaps he was a method actor?

I spread my hands in a quiet display. "Sorry mate, you hunky-dory?"

A quiver of disgust rippled across his face, and he hurried away.

I, in turn, hurried in the opposite direction to a sandwich shop. There, I purchased a fine delicacy of cheese and meat, enveloped within the comfortable confines of warm bread, and sat down. Keeping my back to the door felt like I was breaking the First Cardinal Rule of Paranoia, but I figured it had to be a flexible codicil somewhere down the line.

It took me a good ten minutes to enjoy that bit of heaven-on-earth, during which a few customers entered and left. I headed to their restroom, and changed disguises, stuffing the fat suit into a backpack kept in the electrician's bag. The bag went into the pack as well, leaving me with a pure black pants, white-and-black-striped shirt, and white gloves.

Pure white makeup went on my face, red lips and the traditional diamonds for eyes. Mimes were indeed one of the most overlooked sources of cover in the world. Who would suspect?

Lots of people. But hopefully no one near me.

Leaving the restroom, I left a tip on the counter, and a cheerful farewell wave; all silent of course. Blessings came in many forms, some in black clothes and white facepaint.

Coming back outside, the man tailing me almost ran into me again. I jumped aside, over-exaggerating the motion. He ignored me, rounding the corner once more, head pointed down. Perhaps he was missing the cell phone, so carelessly dropped in our collision? I certainly didn't have it. Even if I did, giving it back wouldn't have done him any good, what with how its hardware underwent the concentrated force of every restrained chaotic tendency held back under my focus.

Then again, maybe its current location down a storm drain would be preferable?

Nah.

He looked smart. I'm sure he'd figure it out sooner or later.

Returning home took a reverse number of trains and busses, plus an additional clothing switch. By the end of it, I felt myself missing Electrician McGuffin. He'd been a useful identity, aged long enough to raise no red flags, a personality that felt comfortable, and even relatively honest.

"Honey, I'm Hommmmmmeee!" I hollered as the basement door creaked open.

Wheelchair sounds came my way from the curtained-off area behind the kitchen.

"Jerk."

I went still. Tyler only called me by my proper name when something was wrong.

He came into sight, chair propelling him as usual but the skinny six foot man in its confines looked weak. Tired. As if he were about to collapse.

I sighed. "Not working, huh?" Without wasting more time I knelt, laying my forearm along his, hands grasping at the elbow. As soon as skin touched skin I felt a jolt, like when you licked a nine-volt battery.

Tyler grunted, looking less tired but more irritated. "Thanks. Progress continues, but at reduced degrees of efficiency. Three discrete requests, personal attention required. By the way, did you know our penthouse resident acquired a cat?"

"Yeah, miss what's her name? Loves cats. Pictures, posters, a few statues. Figure she's some kind of Egyptian mythology nutcase." I kept a firm grip on my brothers' elbow. "Blondes. Whaddyagonnado?"

"Stay away from her suite until next month, I hope." He relaxed. "Then it was the Millers, their explanation included a large brass instrument terminating the propane egress valve – I lack comprehension in that regard. Petersen required assistance with the wireless connection. You didn't happen to lose control on the third floor during roaming hours, did you?"

I shrugged. "Slept like a log. Thought I was doing pretty well."

"No matter," the bags under his eyes were looking much lighter now. "Much appreciated. I shall return to –"

"Nope. You're gonna take a nap. Haven't run yourself this ragged in a while, even if that chair of yours helps. It ain't no substitute for the real McCoy." I let a grin slip his way. It bounced off the diamond-hard shields developed over a lifetime of exposure with a sad squelching noise. "Look, I know you've been working on a solution. I don't mind hanging around. You can use e-mail. I can reach the top shelf. It works out."

Light blue eyes met mine. They were tired, more lined than what I saw in the mirror.

"Ach. Fine." He looked down, weariness overcoming defiance. "But you get to take care of the top floor next time."

"Yeah." I felt a bulge in my pocket. "Oh. Present for you."

He straightened, lively interest making his face shed decades. "You succeeded?"

A Cheshire grin wound itself onto my face. "Hey. It's me. Of course! Might have to scrap that ID, but we got what we needed. Think we should steer clear of OsCorp towers for the near future too. Just to be safe."

As my twin busied himself with the lead-lined thumb drive case, I decided to get changed, and perhaps take a shower. Running in three sets of clothing was exhausting. I'd tell him about meeting the son of Norman Osborn later. Right now he'd obsess about the device, perhaps it would hold more answers than my last efforts. Still, it was a successful day. I lived, my personal identity was safe, no one got hurt, barring an innocent cell phone. What was not to love about life?

Another thought percolated through my brain. _'Was this job number forty-three? True I infiltrated one of the highest security places in town, but it was easy. No loot, no new resources. Just a stupid thumb drive that might-or-might-not have data we want.'_

Regret filled my body just as surely as that sandwich filled my stomach. _'Nope. Not another job. Just a little heist. Dangerous, true, but just a heist.'_


	3. Meetings and Interruptions

A world of mutants, self-proclaimed gods, and power-hungry techno-geeks is a world of chaos. Doctor Doom – who is legally entitled to both names I might add – combined many of those same components. While he's stopped short of outright claiming godhood, he is a potentate of his country, Latveria. As such, there are certain things permissible in his country, enforceable by his own will. Robots serve his will like the slaves from which such automatons derived their name.

I looked at my own servitors, little masterpieces of evil if I did say so myself. With them, I was a terror to dozens of families, enforcing my will upon the scum of the earth. On their own they would be useless, but with the force of my personal attention, they manifested a room-clearing aura of terrifying proportions.

"Well then," addressing non-communicative personnel was frustrating, but the principle of the thing needed to be maintained. "Mister Mop, mister Bucket: well done, the both of you."

Implements on my budget never responded, much like the Neighborhood Ordinances group. But that never bothered me. I had enough conversation flowing through my veins to count for a dozen robots ... if robots could talk. If they couldn't, then my implements were just as talkative, right? You never saw a _Rise of the Overlord_ from _my_ hardware, unless a certain big-eared mouse in a pointy hat was involved. The rodent was evil, taking over everything.

But that was not my concern.

I'd just completed a noisome task, and deserved a chance to breathe fresh air. Public bathrooms were … to be quite frank – the pits. John Q. Public in his inestimable wisdom, needed assistance in everything from reloading dispensers to not splashing soap and worse on the mirrors, _everything_. The bright side was that Gladsheim Glen, our apartment complex, received few of the public folk. We didn't have a pool either, that would've been a nightmare to maintain, although there were constant requests to install one. Maybe after Tyler and I had solved our latest conundrum.

To refresh my brain and cleanse the scent of acidic cleansers from my nasal palate, I decided to go on a little walk. A quick note, left on the desk downstairs, and a few minor items essential for my trade, and I was ready.

Rather than exit through the front doorway of the front desk clerk and the janitors who also perform hard labor, I elected to take the back route. There were four official entrances to the main building, and an additional four for each of the other three apartment buildings. We had a tiny block, but it's _our_ block. During Christmas we set up multi-colored lights; at Easter there are pale eggs I set up as decorations. It is homey, as best as commercial products can make.

Out on the street, I looked at the gray sky. I'd heard of wide-open spaces. I'd seen them too – _creepy_. It felt like the entire world was able to look in on me. Give me a nice busy street with tall buildings on every side. It's safer that way.

I decided to take a little stroll down Mimir Drive, which lead to a tiny park less than two blocks away. A convenient hot-dog stand granted the nectar of New York, filling in the addictive urge acquired from a lifetime's exposure.

A brisk walk, with a justified taxi ride, took me to my destination: Avenger's Mansion. It was a tall structure, taking up an entire city block, prime real-estate in anyone's estimation. From its heights the Baxter Building was visible to all with X-ray vision or a penthouse suite. I'd always wondered if they sent messages through flashlights from upper floor to upper floor – super-secret clubhouses needed a good flashlight code, right?

Another purchase of local culinary delights allowed me the time to locate a good surveillance position to one side of the Mansion proper: a chess table lacking inhabitants.

Paying cash for a set, I arranged my pieces in a classic arrangement, setting myself up to studying the board. Occupying myself with an intellectual challenge made a protocol on par with individuals playing on their cell phones, or reading a book. Busy people are non-threatening people. If one included my innate capacity for avoiding video surveillance, and the business of a distracted mind, and no one paid attention. Except for pickpockets, and thugs … and ne'er-do-wells. I could handle those.

As time progressed, people entered and exited the Avenger's Mansion. I recognized one or two minor icons despite their attempt at casual clothing. Soldiers tend to stand at attention, and those with superhuman physiques fail to consider how many of their less-gifted kindred hop four steps at a time.

More important for the moment were the maintenance staff. Automation only went so far; breakdowns occurred in power plants, drive trains, wireless transmitters, anything that required moving parts or transmitted high-energy wore out. Newton's Laws of Motion combined with the Laws of Thermodynamics in a beautiful whole, blending into essence the very fabric of a janitor's life work. Objects of Mess tended to stay a Mess, unless acted upon by an outside force. Heaven forbid the God of Thunder do his own laundry, and Iron Man couldn't devote all his considerable intellect to lightbulb replacement.

What happened when a boiler blew? The Hulk wouldn't be re-connecting water lines, that much I knew. Mockingbird wouldn't fix that; I knew that too.

 _'Stark Enterprises van,'_ I marked a new move in my notebook, under the Prussian Offense tactic. _'Same schedule as last week. Triple security check, card and iris scan. Genetic scan probable indoors.'_

I respected Stark Industries. They paid their employees well, and gave them time off, with health care. If their CEO and chief inventor preferred to drive fast cars and schmooze with attractive women, that was his prerogative. His business decisions had managed to keep people with a job, and he didn't hand out pink slips like so many others did when times got hard.

 _'It has nothing to do with how tight their security is, nope. Nothing to do with that gorgeous pressure-lock hybrid setup, or the laser barrier trigger system.'_ My mouth watered as I denoted pawn movement on the notebook, matching it with the board and a coincidental name-tag on the service mook shirts. _'Wish I could get my hands on the current floor plans. Last set is over six months old, and they've moved a few tons of hardware in since then.'_

Then something caught my attention: a medium-size vehicle, classical dark windows tinted just enough to allow shadows through. Its wheels were regulation size, but … they looked wrong. The wear wasn't standard, closer to the outer edge rather than spread across the entire width. Owners of such an expensive vehicle wouldn't neglect getting their tires rotated, and I couldn't imagine the bumpy ride an axle bent enough to result in such an odd pattern.

 _'Bishop to H-5?'_ I penciled a question mark next to the move, keeping my eyes away from the vehicle. One glance was all I had time, without drawing unnecessary attention. Body language was an art, a hint of abnormal behavior is all it took to clue people off. The vehicle stopped at a side entrance, almost hidden by pillars. _'No, H-8, all the way to the back rank.'_

This was an important visitor. The license plate held four digits, meaning either a tribal plate from Washington State, or some kind of Federal connection.

I stretched, raising my arms overhead and twisting my body from side to side. A young man, light-skinned and with an eye patch got out, headed for the doorway. Before I could get a look at his face if he turned, I had to resume watching my board – again, showing minimal interest. But as I turned, I noticed the distinctive boomerang-style lights of another Mercedes, and a familiar logo slapped on the side of its doors. Osborn Industries had design as distinctive as Mercedes, a broken circle with the name situated within or below the rounded line. That was … expected. Unanticipated, but expected.

Another move made its way across the chess board, this time experimenting with a rook, threatening a king from long range. Thoughts tumbled through my mind as I tried to reconcile the new data with the old. Did OsCorp want outside help in finding that thumb drive I'd lifted? Or had they detected the pattern in thefts and were hoping to obtain independent aid? OsCorp was a multibillion dollar industry. Stark Enterprises had Iron Man on retainer, or as CEO, depending to what rumor one paid lip-service, did OsCorp want a bit of professional help?

That didn't make sense. They were designing massive _somethings_ with that Senator. Funding was coming from somewhere, but where?

I frowned at the set. Shadows created from the pieces stretched along the black-and-white squares, like miniature pathways of doom. That was a morbid thought.

Sighing I reset the entire board, realigning the pawns with their reciprocating back-line power pieces. Maybe this just wasn't worth investigating. If the Avengers were in on whatever OsCorp and Trask were doing, it had a good chance of being a well-meaning but stupid goal. The last time I'd pushed an investigation based on gut instinct, I'd had to burn five ID's after an investigative team from Wakanda tried tracking me. In the end, it turned out for the best; I had a small stash of vibranium in a Swiss Bank locker, misfiled as Second World War artifacts … but I missed that little deli on Fifth Street.

"Are you waiting for someone?" an unfamiliar voice met my ears.

I looked up, automatically tipping my hat as the speaker's gender became obvious. She was blonde, roughly five ten, and familiar for some reason. I stood; old school rarity didn't mean manners died. "Sorry, I didn't see you there Miss. No, I'm just working out a few problems on the board."

She displayed a brilliant set of well-maintained teeth. Coupled with the fur edgings on her jacket, expensive Gucci boots and designer handbag, this woman had wealth and was accustomed to it. Then it hit me; this was the cat woman that lived in the penthouse apartment, Harding was it? No that was the twenty-ninth president. Every time I'd do my rounds there were a few cats in her apartment, watching everything with terrifying focus. It reminded one of the old fable where cats could see ghosts, although to be honest, they looked more on edge, waiting for someone to pounce from above or through a twentieth story window or something. Ridiculous in concept, but perhaps not so much in this reality.

The tenant sat uninvited on the far side of the board, looking it over. "Chess? I'd never pegged you as a chess nut. Boasting in the open foyer would be out of character, wouldn't it?"

I ignored her giggles, as well as the pun. It was clever, but Knut the Landlord had a poker face FBI negotiators would kill to acquire. He was boring, uninteresting, and not worth investigating, other than a few shameful peccadillos. Clean records were warning signs; a few minor offenses brought down the threat level of any legal bloodhound.

"You never know," I shrugged. "A few games now and again. It's the theory that interests me."

"Yeah," she snickered. "You get it for the articles, I gotcha. So what's the problem you're working on now?"

Somewhat irritated, I gestured at the board. "This is one of the Excelsior problems, first published back in 1861, then added to in 1867. The trick is to discover which White piece is least likely to perform checkmate."

Need I say that surprised is a good look on most people? While she re-evaluated her concepts of boring landlords – to even more boring I hoped – the expensive government vehicle received its eye-patched passenger and drove off. Ordinary cars accelerated in a gentle vroom of exhaust and engine rumbling, but this one had a quiet buzzing under the usual engine noise. Too different from electric cars, possible hydrogen fuel? Those were experimental in parts of the world. I'd have to ask my brother.

"Huh," the cat woman commented. "Guess I know who to call upon for tactical advice."

I snorted, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Finally, the event for which I'd been waiting occurred: a window on the fifth story slid open, and a winged figure popped out, powering for the sky. Fast, sturdy beats propelled the man higher until lost from view. The key point rested in the window left open, which stayed open. There were three separate cameras watching, the expensive kind augmented by UV filters, motion-tracking sensors, infrared attachments and enough gadgetry to stock a Sharper Image catalogue before it went bankrupt. The ones I could see were devoted to rooftops and street observations, plus a dozen dedicated to street-level security.

"What do you think is the most valuable thing in there?" my unwanted companion asked. "Avenger's Mansion has to be stuffed full of treasure. Gold? Jewels? Who knows what, right?"

 _'Five sets of Iron Man armor at the least, each worth half a billion on the Black Market_ ,' my subconscious answered. ' _Two labs devoted to ripping apart the space-time continuum, one divine hammer, enough medical supplies for two meth-addicted armies, military-grade refined vibranium …._ '

"Couldn't say," I made another note in my book, emphasizing the double-you in White Knight, Aich-three. If it looked like small wings, who would blame me? I have excellent penmanship.

"Aw," she batted long eyelashes at me. "With all those big brains, you gotta have some idea of what could be in there, right?"

I looked at her over my wire-frame glasses in a move that in no way supported stereotypes, or their use by law enforcement agencies, and gave her a look of disdain. "Miss Hardy. I am a simple, old-fashioned man. As long as they keep their fights away from my apartments, I do not care if they have a jewel-studded coffeemaker that sings opera every morning. I will keep my things to myself, and hope they do the same."

"You're no fun," she rolled her eyes. One hand slapped my shoulder, pushing me back into the chair. It was a surprisingly heavy impact, throwing me off my balance.

Recovering, I checked my pocket watch, a mechanical model I wound every evening, along with the Grandfather clock in the atrium. "Three o'clock. Time to head home and put something into the oven. A pleasure as always, Miss Hardy."

She groaned. "You're headed home to cook? It's not even late afternoon, and you're going home? Talk about boring! What are you going to do, sleep by nine?"

"You know your Franklin," I collected the chess pieces, placing them back in the plastic box that came with the set. I emphasized meticulous workmanship, almost to the point of fussiness. "Early to bed, early to rise, _et al_."

"And he just said that," her slim frame slumped on the vacated table. "Et. Al. Who says that these days?"

Pleased at my success, I walked away to return the set. Startled by my movement, a dark shadow darted across the sidewalk in front of me, pausing on the street-side curb. It was a cat, fur as dark as midnight and intelligent if its eyes had anything to say. I smiled, reaching for some kibble I kept in a pocket. One never knew when a little treat would silence the savage watchdog. Cat food – and the treats often sold for cats – often contained high-protein and other high-fat ingredients. I made a few variants myself, chicken and bouillon were popular mixes.

"Sorry about that. Here you go little guy," I tossed a pair of chicken-flavored cubes towards the building-side of the walkway. The cat chased after them like a shot, vanishing into the shadows without a sound.

A presence behind me made itself known when Miss Hardy tucked her arm under mine. "So, you like cats? Don't you know black cats are bad luck?"

I glanced down at her arm then back at her. I could pull free, but that would damage the reputation I'd made for old-fashioned behavior. I didn't like having someone's hand so close to my pockets, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Plus she paid top dollar for the penthouse.

"You believe that old tale?" I started walking again, adjusting myself to the street-side of the sidewalk. Old manners demanded a gentleman shield a lady from puddles coming from the street – not that water was there. But it was still polite. "You have not traveled much, have you? In England, it is considered good luck if a black cat crosses your path, and better still if it enters your home uninvited."

"Really? She smirked at the small creature, just visible in the shadows. "I hadn't heard that one. I like it."

* * *

Losing my tenant took a little more effort, but I finally managed to secure an Uber for her, and made excuses about picking up cooking supplies at a deli. I did, in fact, know of a few higher-class provender providers, and acquired a decent quantity in little time. But my major purpose had been fulfilled; the Avengers Mansion had a weak point. Cameras were no obstacle for me, the primary difficulty would be in how complex that AI of theirs could make my task.

Fortune smiled upon me as I discovered the bus timetable held a conveyance going the same direction I needed to travel, at a time that was convenient. This was tantamount to a minor miracle in New York, and I rode in gleeful peace until my stop. Crossing the street, returning the friendly gestures offered by eager drivers impatient at the basic concepts of red stoplights, landed me back home, the glorious calm within the hectic chaos.

Inside I slipped down to the basement, or rather the private level that happened to be underground. Storage occupied half of the floorplan, and city records suggested parking garage space further down. If asked, I could claim there was mechanical difficulty, and patter on through meaningless verbiage whilst my twin cleared out the appropriate level.

Contrary to common thought, digging down did not mean secret. Subways, power lines, sewer systems, drainage pipes … everyone wanted access to lower property. Some even wanted airspace above the building. Something about catching low-flying mutants? I had to throw the activists out on their ear, or rather Ivan our potential-mutant doorman. I'd suspected his six foot frame had a bit more under the hood than advertised, but made very deliberate efforts to not ask.

 _Discretion_. A dying art.

My mental deliberations derailed as I entered the room and observed Tyler's stiff expression, eyes flying to one of the cameras posted outside the neighborhood street. "Incoming," he muttered.

I glanced at the screen myself. For some reason, my power could be kept in check more easily near him; a fact we used to our advantage. My capacity for destroying electronics held massive potential, but … there were downsides. Even with his calming presence, I could go off like some mystical weapon – an incredibly handsome, debonair weapon. Which reminded me of a proud point: we had no code names. All the major players' pseudonyms held exotic meaning for those of us with lesser capabilities, something to distract and intimidate. _Spider_ - _man_ , for example, was as crazy as his moniker's style – agility and connections, with a hint of terrifying intelligence. _Magneto_ held sway over metal and public opinion with his combative behavior.

Self-aggrandizing, superlative names mocked the idea of staying unnoticed. We could do better; we didn't need attention. Best to be invisible – or just swap a normal name for public works – 'Arnold' perhaps? Better than _'Zero Mike'_ or _'Alpha Gator'_ or some such ridiculous term.

Movement on the screen drew my attention back to the subject at hand. "Who?" I asked, mentally reviewing what weapons were available, balancing stopping power with ease-of-access.

Tyler's fingers flew over his keyboard, slipping past the clicking points. "Human. Caucasian. Platinum blonde hair, aficionado of the color white." The monitor changed, flipping between screens. "Appears to be either of Nordic blood, or loyal to an … interesting fashion sense. Or else is impervious to the cold."

The figure looked very familiar. I'd spent some time memorizing significant members of the major organizations – and this one had been a very pleasant study. "Is there a large, fat, man nearby, or maybe a tall man with too much hair?"

Whirring sounds responded. "Hmmm, there's a tall man with a trench coat on the opposite side of the street. Looks almost Asgardian, but … not as refined."

I immediately changed my weapons list from things small and concealable to large and detonating. "Brotherhood, I think. Guy's codename is Sabretooth but the lady goes by her given name, Emma Frost. Feral and a mind-cracker."

"Ah." Tyler paused his movements. "A canine and his master; no doubt targets are located with the telepath, and dispatched on her directive?"

"Maybe." A flamethrower, concealed beneath the sink, held potential. Regenerative powers became increasingly tiring while repairing scar tissue. Fire made for very good scar tissue. Telepaths … weren't a problem. Not for us right now. "The better question is: are we their target? I don't think I've visited them in a while."

Brotherhood attacks had gone up recently. The organization claimed it to be in reaction to the recent legislation in favor of mutant regulation. I was in favor of course, so long as those with powers to regulate were also regulated. Technically, as part of the government they were … but such niceties rarely served to satisfy the more bloodthirsty of individuals. The X-Men on the other hand had been increasing their visibility as of late; countering the Brotherhood at improbably frequent intervals. Everyone needed a hobby.

On the two screens the odd couple moved as if in complete ignorance of each other. However, most people traveling separate routes don't take the same street, turn after turn. Or somehow make the same point of reference, seconds after each other. As a professional thief, body language was legible to me. While their attitude remained aloof, their habits were clear: they were in complete awareness of each other, poised for imminent combat. Maybe they were using the telepath to wipe suspicion? But it didn't explain cameras – unless she felt she could monitor the camera watchers too? Idiots, both of them.

"Think you could pickpocket one of them?" Tyler queried.

I examined the pair. Miss Frost's outfit, pure white hip-hugging slacks with a snug halter-top, didn't appear to have enough space to conceal a credit card. There were ways, of course; inserts or seamless magnetic clips. And there was always the Prison Special … but that took a trip to the bathroom and a bit of time, so nothing I'd be willing to lift.

Sabretooth on the other hand – ol' Grouchy Jaws himself – had enough clothing to hide sufficient weaponry for a full squad. Trench coats were illegal in some places for the same reason ponchos couldn't be worn inside shops down in South America. Merchandise had a tendency to vanish in their vicinity, and the wearers suddenly very eager to claim immunity to Search and Seizure legislation. Given the number of cops on the dole, there existed a very definite reason for that kind of thing, but the principle issue remained.

"I'd rather not," I kept watching the feral mutant. "He's got a very keen sense of smell. Once I get close enough, he'll follow me everywhere, even with a carboxylic bath. If I could keep my scent in the background, he couldn't filter it out but up close? Not very good odds."

"But …" my brother didn't face me, directing his query instead with all the precision of an AI-boosted surgeon. "Your _talents_ involve a minimal scent, and we purchased a quantity of scentless hunting assets. Clarify?"

"I have a little scent," I corrected. "Even after showering with those scentless soaps, changing and all that. But more importantly, I don't have a clean pair of clothes right now. Not _clean_ clean; he'd track some tenant from the laundry. If I had time to clean up, break out the hunting clothes and get a peppermint bomb ready … I'd like my chances better."

Tyler didn't question me; he knew my standards. "Pity. Perhaps … ah. Our pair are progressing to our little communique crèche."

I rolled my eyes. "You can call it a drop box. I'm sure no one will mind."

A little smile tugged at his face. "Utilizing the utmost capacity of my vocabulary exercises mental faculties your stultified parlance cannot comprehend."

For a moment, I contemplated digging out a thesaurus, just to make fun of him, but decided against it. "I'll give Chat a ring. Got any spares?"

A longsuffering sigh responded, and he rolled away, entering the forbidden area beyond the beaded separator. His voice trailed after him, like a lonely puppy. "Yes … but you will need to acquire more. I swear we go through more of these than the CIA's entire covert operations department."

I held out a hand, waiting until a used cell phone flew through the barrier curtain. It was an older model, the free flip kind people tossed out without a second glance. Complacency, as had been noted some time ago by a great man, was the bane of humanity. One man's trash became another's treasure – especially if a SIM card were intact, neglected from being removed.

 _Idiots_.

Giving my brother a thumbs up, I took an exit. While the mind-cracker and her husky pet strolled down Mímir Drive, I took Aesir Avenue up the opposite side of the apartment building. Out of the desire for safety, paranoia, and a good healthy dose of hunger stemming from a lack of dinner, my path took me across a few blocks worth of streets and vendors. I'd noted earlier that consuming vendor food was an experience. It was amusing to me how the average American decried what undoubted cruelty lurked behind the Great Perfidy commonly known as a New York Hot Dog, but would scarf down a dozen in a sitting if possible. My personal preference loaded chili, cheese and onions all over the delectable treat, but out of respect for others, I replaced the onions with a good healthy serving of ketchup.

Just after that, in the less populated sidewalks, I started channeling a low-level charge. Power flowed through me, making it hard to concentrate, but not so difficult as to cause loss of control. The unique – downright handy – benefit of my little problem is a distinct lack of digital signature. In my lowest-level state, digital sensors perceive a foggy blur. Even when at my lowest state, electronics can't see me; motion detectors, cameras, nothing. When the power starts to flow, even the special ultra-violet phase-shifting contraptions I've discovered in odd locations around the city couldn't find me, and those operated on a really, _really_ high level.

Or so I understood. I tended to smile and nod when Tyler started babbling in theoretical physics.

Five blocks from the apartments, I found myself in the same little park, full of trees that shielded the ground from pesky things like satellites and drones. New York is practically stocked with the gardens, tiny squares of nature set in place so long ago that not even the City Planners know when they first came to be. They're useful for secretive meetings, the frequent smoker, and garbage from lazy people too incompetent to walk five feet to the nearest garbage can.

Admittedly; sometimes I saw people dump garbage in my area. It somehow mysteriously wound up in their bedrooms, possibly in their unmentionables. Coincidence, right?

My concentration sharpened as the power coursing through my skin faded. The sensation was … disquieting. Sort of like how too much liquid was squashed into a water balloon, yet remained contained. Or perhaps more similar to a boiled egg, balanced on the tip of the Empire State building, then transferred to a warehouse roof; really touchy for a second, then calm as a politician just after retirement.

The phone buzzed lightly. A quiet female voice, young and impressionable answered. _"Hello?"_

"Hey! Is this Chat?"" I turned my head away from the street, studying the trees. They were stunted things, cramped from the lack of sunlight and nutrition. Yet they stubbornly keep growing, much like the denizens of the city themselves.

 _"Who is this?"_

"Call me Joe," I smiled at no one in particular; people skills require maintenance, even if the person in question couldn't see them. "We talked a week ago about a pickup?"

Interest perked her voice. _"Oh yeah, that. You have another one?"_

"Sure do, can you get a three-team drop-off for me? I'll pay you double from last time."

" _I can do that. Same place as last time?"_

"Eh," I shrugged my shoulders. "Should be good. You know the drill, right?"

 _"Yes, yes."_ Annoyance crept into her voice. _"Don't hang around, and don't peek. Got it."_

I smiled brightly, winking at a mother and her two children passing by. She blushed, hurrying past. "Good! I'll leave your payment under the bushes out in Hyde's Park. Good talking with you."

The phone sizzled in my hands, dying the instant I released control. Sparks arced from my skin, soaking into the device like termites in an old house. About as helpful too – for the phone.

The screen blinked once, then faded. Dead. Thirty seconds later, the battery and SIM card were separated into their own special storage pouches. Nothing could be read from either of course, but why stop with a single stopgap measure? Paranoia is only absurd if someone wasn't out to get you. To the professional thief, that included the entire world.

Thirty minutes later, the job was complete. My comrade-in-arms held a fat paycheck, and an extremely confused feral was busy chasing a team of squirrels across New York – followed by an increasingly irate telepath. Thoughts about the delights of acorns, massive billboard-size papers, and tasty crumbs seemed to frustrate her. If she was reading anything at all – it might have just been at the lack of response from the feral.

When I got back to the apartment, sounds of welding came from the back room. I was under a standing order to never enter the back room, punctuated with multiple warning labels, posters, and a low-hanging bead curtain. The thing looked like it belongs to a séance booth, not a converted garage with a quantum computer. Tyler even built another Faraday Cage inside the room – which actually made sense. Both he and I were partially immune to telepaths, while in proximity to each other, which left remote computer hacking one of the few long-range hazards. It's amazing what a few twisted minds and some wi-fi can do.

Quantum computing however … I had no idea how he built that. I collected parts from time to time, but he's a literal genius.

"Tylllllerrrrrr I'm hoooommmmmeeeee!" I shouted in the likeliest direction.

A muffled shout answered me, from deep within the bowels of the mysterious Beaded Chamber of Joy. It sounded enthusiastic.

I dropped the paper envelope on the table, after running a last, large charge through its innocent lining. Nothing fizzled, popped or otherwise betrayed the existence of delicate electronics on the way over from the pick-up spot, and that exact same nothingness repeated itself so now. Presumably, that meant there was nothing electronic within the confines of its thin, paper walls.

I'd heard about Japanese buildings made from paper; even been to Japan once. All I have to say is: not a good choice of construction material.

The envelope contained an elegant, hand-written paper; standard A-4 white letter, eight-and-a-half by eleven. Truly impressive cursive script – on unlined paper no less! – it embellished a few lines on a third of the sheet, not quite calligraphy, but certainly close enough in today's culturally decrepit society.

 _Ghost,_

 _We find ourselves in need of data concerning the Sentinel legislation of Senator Trask. Should you be able to obtain it, we would be willing to pay optimal rates in exchange._

 _The Brotherhood of Mutants_

Huh.

That … that was a surprise. When I'd spotted the two members of the Brotherhood stalking around my neck of the woods, I'd never actually considered their organization quite like that. The Brotherhood appeared on the news because of their terrorist tactics; vague schemes to overthrow humanity or the government or some such thing. Sabretooth alone had a body count higher than some professional armies, and Emma Frost? She just gave me the willies. Put all that together, and you'd think they had something better to do than sit around thinking up nicknames.

A mental image popped into my head, rows of people behind desks and stacks of dictionaries, each busily working their way through lists for everyone they encountered, spare codenames for extreme missions … the thought was not helping.

"Yo Tyler, you there?"

The rolling chair slowly made its presence known; I could feel its multi-terawatt power supply approach like a mobile oil-fueled power center. Albeit one roughly the size of a coffeemaker, tucked away beneath a six-foot dude, and about as attractive as an iceberg to a _Titanic_ survivor. "Indeed. What information did our furred conveyor of data acquire?"

I cheerfully turned the paper around to show him. " _Ghost_? Who thinks up these things? It sounds like something a hormonal teenager came up with, after pulling two consecutive all-nighters on some FPS game."

Tyler's deep blue eyes studied me thoughtfully. "That was … oddly specific."

"Well," my mind skittered, looking for an excuse. "Oh. Job. Trask, you know who that is?"

He took a moment, raising an eyebrow before allowing the distraction. "Senator Bolivar Trask? Founder of Trask Industries, major producer of mutant-suppression technologies?"

My thoughts turned professional. Trask Industries had wedged a well-earned name for themselves amongst the underworld. Players like the Kingpin left it alone, while Green Goblin seemed to delight in mocking its efficiency. "Hmmm, made the Tee-Eye Blockade series right? And the Xenon Barrier-glass formula?"

"Indeed." My brother rolled over to a large screen inset to the wall, shielded three ways from Sunday against me. Not that it would help if I focused … but sometimes it worked. "As Senator, Trask has espoused a remarkably hostile stance against mutants. My analysis determined energetic support, but from a minority popular-support ratio. I would venture his largest support group lies within the liberal minorities' demographics, edging towards the wider liberal party as a whole. Fifteen percent of donations are not listed, but comprise nearly thirty percent of his total platform-operations income. Media coverage is near fanatically supportive in some major cities, barring some of the more conservative-leaning states. Media outlets in North Dakota, for example, support him with less than point zero one percent positive coverage."

I blinked. "… But how does that help me?"

"Hmph." He flicked the screen on. "Utilizing this will assist your infiltration. The 'Sentinel' legislation so far remains under Top Secret protections, above my malware expertise for the moment. This opportunity will provide joint advantages, given our investigations within the political-industrial complex. Osbourne and Trask finances are 'joined at the hip' … as it were. We were aware of this; do you recall the OsCorp operation several days prior? OsCorp has been performing hardware prototyping for this Sentinel program, as well as the rather odd production runs in New York alone … interesting, that."

Mixing jobs never sat well with me. "Don't want to get too complicated."

My brother, intelligent as he usually is, took the point in stride. "Generally, true. However, we retain a key advantage. Senator Trask appears fixated solely upon meta-human aggression for protective advancements, whilst we utilize solely standard methods of incursion."

"Appears. _Appears_." I focused on his assumption. "What if he has some feral watching his back, or a Class Two energy thrower? Remember Kamchatka?"

Tyler rolled his eyes. "Completely different scenario. You are fluent in the local language, understand the politics, and possess much more experience."

I stared, daring him to lie to my face. "Promise me I won't go through another hazardous waste site. Not again."

Indecision warred against the need for conviction, battling for supremacy of his face. After a second, he realized the delay had been too long. Blonde hair – darker than mine – floated down as his chin hit his chest. "I … cannot. Too many variables."

Having successfully reminded him of his mortality, a list began ticking through my mind once more. "Fine. I'm thinking a little hair dye, maybe some contacts, and a pair of glasses. Mid-level bureaucrat?"

Too used to my flights of decision-making fancy, Tyler just went with the flow. "Upper-mid, but not too high. Professional academia statistician of some type, reports for consumption. But what subject?"

I already had my hands full of prosthetic facial equipment. False ears, noses and the like bounced off the table like a collection of unnerved frogs. "Population statistics. Give it an official title, like _'Extrapolated Growth Patterns in Red-Hair Anomalies._ ' In Oslo."

Wheels stopped. "Sweden?"

"Yah, sure, you betcha." I chose a reddish-blonde hair dye; organic and proven to not damage the roots. My hair is fairly light blonde, so it takes coloring quite rapidly – but is susceptible to damage with equal speed. "If he's studying mutants, he wants distribution numbers. I remember something how red heads pop up most often where the Vikings settled; coasts, islands and all that. Pad it out with something along the lines of disease vectors, maybe throw in a Neanderthal connection, and Bob's your uncle."

A glint of respect shone in my brother's face. "You've been reading."

Not waiting for my response, he retreated behind the beaded curtain. We had work to do.


End file.
